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needed.
Silent as the breeze in the grass, they
slipped between the tent flaps. Rowan didn’t
know where to look first.
At the wolf and Fae male sprawled on the
floor.
Or at the iron coffin across the tent.
The iron box they’d locked her in.
Had to reinforce, it seemed, from the
sloppy welding on the thick slabs atop it.
The box was so small. So narrow.
The smell of her blood, her fear, saturated
the tent. Emanated from that box.
A metal table lay nearby.
And beneath it ...
Rowan took in the three unlit braziers set
beneath it, the chain anchors at the head and
foot of the table, and at last looked toward the
Fae male left bloodied, but still alive, on the
floor across from Fenrys.